Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon Scotland Yard 3
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: Doctor John Watson has very few things left that he values, his reputation is one. Suddenly, he is being tarnished by an all too familiar face from his past. Someone demanding his help before the fog rolls in and the killer stalking him strikes again.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Notes:** Here we are again. This story sprang from an event I could not find a place for in the previous installment. The only way I could have introduced this concept was if I did a blind introduction of a character out of the blue that is cheap to me so I came up with this concept. I think it might wind up being a bit controversial, but I am going to plow on anyway.

Watson and Lestrade are once again taking residence in my brain, and I hope I can get this story out before they do significant damage up there. Of course those who know me would quip, "how do we know there is damage?" Miserable comforters all!

The title will make since later on...nuff said. I also have a picture with this fic that I worked hard on, I hope it adds to the enjoyment. Check it out in my profile. Pay attention to the story notes after.

Once again these are Conan's boys and I ain't talking O'Brien! LOL!

_**Bart**_

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 3**

**Esau Have I Hated**

**Chapter One**

Lestrade was in a foul mood as he arrived at the Yard.

The inquest the day before about the recent events surrounding the capture of the Sherlock Holmes impostor had not gone well for the Yarders.

"Let me see if I understand the relevant facts in this matter," wheezed Judge Hollow, his washed out brown eyes glinting with disdain. "Firstly, there was a mentally ill individual roaming around London posing as Sherlock Holmes exhibiting disdain for the law and you were unable to capture said individual for nearly three weeks? Secondly, although there was a member of Scotland Yard in good standing intimately familiar with the man he was posing as, and you failed to utilize his cooperation until the situation escalated? Lastly, this man, Doctor John Watson, had to fight off this impostor by himself and risk his life while the Yard was left behind, then later on shot yet another man in the back at the Diogenes Club to prevent an assassination?"

Lestrade and Doctor Watson had made a pact to keep the Baker Street Irregulars out of the paper work, seeing as they were minors and had broken several laws on the Doctor's behalf, but without them involved, a pall was caste over Scotland Yard's involvement. The situation, not helped by the suicides of all involved. The three heavies that assisted the impostor by cyanide capsule, the impostor himself by hanging.

Before the Judge "Hard-arse" Hollow could lower the gavel on the Yard, Mycroft Holmes redeemed himself somewhat by writing to the Judiciary a personal note allowing the matter to drop, but the inquest was still on the record, which hurt Lestrade's chances for career advancement.

"Why don't I go get a law degree, sit on my family's standing, wear an ugly horsehair wig and lord it over the hard working constables, you know when I'm not visiting the East End work houses that pander to men who like little boys..." Lestrade grumbled to himself.

"Lestrade, a word if you will," called Superintendent Collins as Lestrade passed his office on his way to the area he shared with his fellow Inspectors.

_I love my job. _

"Yes Superintendent," he replied dutifully following the tall austere sophisticate into his office.

-

He emerged less than an hour later perplexed.

Yet another impostor? What's happening to this city?

Just in case he thought things couldn't get worse from his conversation to Collins, (disconcerting to say the least) Lestrade made his way down to the offices, and found two unexpected visitors heavily bandaged sorting though large mountains of files with speed and dexterity all the while keeping up a constant brisk dialogue.

"I've got a partial decapitation over here, Tommy."

"Well place it on the partial decapitation pile, Bobby."

"This one was done with a rope pulled by a horse, Tommy."

"Then it goes on the hanging pile, Bobby, do I have to think of everything?"

"Right you are, Tommy, so sorry."

"No worries, Bobby, no worries."

Lestrade sighed wearily. _Not these two, anyone else but these two!_

Having heard Lestrade PC Tommy Parlier glanced up. "Blimey, Chief Inspector, you look like you've already had a day, don't he look tired, Bobby?

"To the bone, Tommy."

"What are you two doing here, instead of White Chapel, and still in uniform past your shift?" Lestrade demanded, trying to head off a barrage about his appearance.

"We had a bit of a riot down at the docks, guv."

"A bit Tommy? I says twelve men and four constables getting banged about qualifies as more than a bit."

"Right you are Bobby. Anyways, we got it quieted down and carted'em all back to tha' Yard for processing, had to call in a bunch o' Surgeons to get everyone patched."

"Even called in Doc Watson, even though we don't usually bother'em unless sumthin strange goes down, right Tommy?"

"Good thing we did, Bobby, one o' tha Frenchies was worse off than he first appeared, and it was good we had a Doc with Surgical experience with the breathing here, saved the man's life he did."

"Had some sort of possible Aortic Thrombosis, so I hear, Tommy."

"Anyways tha Doc figured it out, got him out to St. Bart's in time, he should be up and French in a week or so."

"You take the good with the bad, right Tommy?"

"It's the way of the world, Bobby."

Lestrade found himself standing there slack-jawed, he blinked a couple of times shaking his head a bit to clear it. "What are you doin with these files, please be brief?"

"Well we was here anyways, so Hopkins put us on this project he had been workin on, what is it Bobby?"

"A four-enz-zic filing system, or some such, Tommy"

"We's been sortin the files into method of murders so's if a new murder comes in with similar characteristics we can see a pattern, or sumthin like that, Hopkins explained it better."

"We been working through the last five years, got a bunch sorted already, since we're goin to be sidelined with the injuries. Might take a day or so, right Tommy?"

Tommy jerked a bandaged thumb over his shoulder at a large PC who was sorting quietly; he was so taciturn that Lestrade did not realize he was there, a direct contrast to the two verbose coffee addicts. "Hopkins asked Reynolds to pitch in," Tommy explained. Reynolds waved lazily, "Lo." Tommy leaned in closer to Lestrade in the manner of a conspirator. "He talks a bit much if you ask me guv, just ain't natural." Bobby nodded eagerly.

As they turned back to their work, Lestrade began to touch his pistol and think about possible repercussions.

"I wouldn't do that, at least wait until you're not in the middle of the Yard," said Inspector Hopkins with a grin as he walked over with an armload of more files.

Lestrade glared at the younger man with the razor crisp uniform and patchy moustache. "I can't believe you brought those two into our nice quiet work environment!"

Hopkins shrugged. "We need this done; they are already sorting twice as fast as any three PC's I've used so far."

Lestrade was curious. "Why do we need this done, we've never had a forensic file in the past."

Hopkins put the files down, turning to the inspector his eyes grave. "We always had Holmes in the past. This way it won't take three dead girls before we realize we are dealing with the same killer. "

Lestrade winced, that was not a pleasant memory, but it was the tipping reason that Doctor Watson was now a Police Surgeon.

_Speaking of which..._

"Is Doctor Watson still here?"

Hopkins motioned with his head towards one of the dissection bays. "St. Cloud asked him to check his findings; he thought there was something fishy with a gunshot wound in a victim that came in this morning."

Lestrade had to smile about that. The formerly arrogant Chief Surgeon had mellowed significantly in the previous months since he had gotten cheeky with Doctor Watson and was rightly decimated by the man. St. Cloud was still a pill to work with, but he was willing to listen to others observations now, Watson's in particular. The two men had formed a working partnership with St. Cloud calling for the man even before the inspectors suggested it. Of course, that dressing down he absorbed at the good Doctor's hands was one of the most precise verbal beatings that Lestrade had ever witnessed, anyone would have lost a bit of ego after that. That was just John Watson's first day. He did not arrive at the Yard quietly.

He stuck his head into the small tiled room indicated. "Mind if I slide in, gents?"

St. Cloud's simian hulking presence was leaning over the body in shirtsleeves and coroner's apron; his cold slate gray eyes glanced at Lestrade and away as if seeing nothing of note. Lestrade felt the old anger begin to simmer. Watson, still wearing his coat, obviously there in an advisory capacity, glanced up and his moustache cocked up to one side in a familiar lopsided grin. "I have no objection; pull up a slab, inspector, mi cadáver es su cadáver."

Lestrade returned his warm smile, circling for a better vantage point.

Lestrade watched as they both studied the older man's chest cavity with clinical detachment. "Do you zee what I am talking 'bout Doctor?" St. Cloud inquired as he lifted the piece away. Watson's forehead wrinkled as he followed the larger man's hand.

He suddenly looked excited. "Turn him onto his side please, Georges. Go to the other side of the table Lestrade, and get down where you can look directly at the centre of the chest.

Lestrade did as he bid, St. Cloud watched the Doctor with a perplexed expression, as Watson walked over to sort through some of the tools of the trade. Watson pulled out a narrow wooden dowel checking it's diameter before putting it back finally settling on one. He walked back over to where St. Cloud had the body propped on its side carefully. Watson poked the dowel into the corpses back then retracted it. He reached into his pocket for something that Lestrade could not see.

Immediately, Lestrade could see a flame behind the body, shining straight through the chest cavity.

"Do you see it Lestrade?" Watson called.

"Yes I can see it clear." Lestrade replied. Watson flipped his lighter closed and deposited it into his coat pocket as St. Cloud placed the body back prone. They exchanged a grave look.

"Zis was not a gunshot wound," St. Cloud concluded.

"No, there was not enough path deviation. My guess is impalement with a rod like device, roughly the circumference of a large bullet, which explains why there was no bullet found at the scene. You were right Georges," Watson concluded.

Lestrade knew that St. Cloud had most likely not come to that conclusion, but Watson was giving him credit to soothe the other man's ego. It was typical John Watson. It cost him nothing to give someone else credit for his hypothesis. It was part of what made the man able to work with anyone, no matter how difficult. It was most likely how he was able to deal with Sherlock Holmes and his idiosyncrasies for all those years.

There was silence in the room as all three men speculated about the type of weapon involved.

Watson finally spoke first. "This was too smooth, too well executed, the entrance from the back straight though the heart is a dead giveaway that this assassin has experience with this implement, I am betting he has done this multiple times before."

St. Cloud nodded, his eyes grave. "Zere was a gold coin on ze dead man's tongue; zat might 'ave been some zort of callin card? No?"

Watson beamed. "It would seem likely. Can I see this coin?"

St. Cloud handed the coin over in an evidentiary phial; half filled with clear liquid.

Watson pulled the magnifier over and studied it carefully. "I know practically nothing about coins, but this looks like a new copy of an old coin. There is not enough corrosion or wear to be the genuine article."

St. Cloud nodded gravely as if he was following Watson's thinking. Lestrade had a hunch the big man was just trying not to look out of his depth. Watson's instincts were normally infallible, while St. Cloud usually settled on the obvious, which is why he agreed with Watson's conclusions knowing he could take credit for them later since Watson seldom did. It was disgusting to Lestrade, but he had taken credit for Holmes' conclusions to advance his career, so he could not throw stones.

Watson handed the phial back. "The mind behind this assault is not frenzied at all; the coin left on the tongue is that others will know their work. That is behaviour, not of a serial killer, but of a professional assassin."

St. Cloud's head was on a swivel he was nodding so much.

Lestrade repressed a groan.

"I wonder if they have left this trademark before, maybe we have record of it." Watson remarked.

Lestrade nodded. "We can ask Hopkins later. Collins has a matter he wants to discuss with you."

"What is it exactly, can it possibly wait? I believe we are onto something here." Watson remarked eyes back on the body.

Lestrade sighed. "This is concerning three different complaints lodged against a Doctor John Watson with Scotland Yard in the past two days, the most serious coming in last night. The young lady involved said she has been treated medically by you, and she was sure of her identification."

Watson looked gobsmacked. "She said what?"**(1)**

Lestrade nodded his face grim. "I told Superintendant Collins you were with me last night."

Watson nodded, his eyes still showing signs of shock, he still managed to smile. "Did you tell him we went to the Savoy to see The Mikado?"

Lestrade sighed. "A fact which I would appreciate is kept between us."

Watson shrugged, and then replied, "As you wish."

He held a quick conversation with St. Cloud then followed Lestrade out.

Suddenly there were three younger PC's in unrecognizable in white face, walking in little stutter steps side by side, they reached a fuming Lestrade and broke into song with surprising ability.

_Three little maids from school are we,  
Pert as a school-girl well can be,  
Filled to the brim with girlish glee,  
Three little maids from school!_

Lestrade shot a glare at Watson.

Watson looked unrepentant. "Might I point out that you did not make me promise till just a short time ago, and Yum-Yum, you were a bit sharp."

The young PC on the end looked offended. "I was not sharp, the other two were flat!"

Both of the other PCs turned to him and exclaimed, "Oy!"

Lestrade led a chuckling Watson past the merrily squabbling PCs, ignoring all the catcalls and good-natured ribbing, his ears felt so hot from blushing he was sure they were going to haemorrhage.

They were headed up the stairs when he tossed over his shoulder the declaration, "That's the last time I let you talk me into attending theatre with you!"

Watson snorted. "What, no _H.M.S. Pinafore_?"

Lestrade gave him the glare he deserved.

They were nearly across the office when a voice yelled. "There he is, there's tha bloke that called my Polly a sow in makeup! I recognize him from the charity wards."

Watson and Lestrade looked up in time to see an outsized burly shore man straining against two muscular PCs, there was murder clear in his eyes. Behind him was a slightly overweight teenage girl dressed in a cheap but pretty dress with a bow in her hair, face flushed with the embarrassment.

Sometimes the defence of a person only exacerbates the original offense.

"Daddy, please stop," she pleaded.

He stopped struggling. He pointed an angry finger at Watson. "My little girl just saved your life, friend."

Watson moved past Lestrade's shielding body. "I assure you sir; I would never humiliate anyone in such a manner, especially not this dear girl. You must be mistaken."

Polly looked down, bashful. "He's not the man, daddy, he looks just like him, but his hair is longer and his moustache is different. Doctor Watson's got kinder eyes."

Watson met the bewildered man's gaze with the forthrightness in which he conducted all of his affairs. "I apologize for what happened to your daughter, can I ask her some questions?"

The man nodded eying Doctor Watson with caution.

Watson knelt painfully to look into the mortified girl's eyes. "Polly, can you tell me more about this man?"

She nodded, responding to his kind tone. "He was in the lobby of _The Argentine_, I was there with my auntie for dinner, it's really nice there, I've been looking forward to it for weeks, and I dressed up for it. We were crossing the lobby when a man, who looks just like you, called out, "You can put makeup on a sow, but it will always be a pig." Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. "I thought it was you, he looks so much like you, but he isn't. I'm sorry."

Watson's eyes were flashing anger so deep that Lestrade thought of locking the man up until it passed. He had seen men kill with that look on their face.

"No, Polly, I am not he. He lied. You look lovely," Watson informed gently touching her cheek.

She managed to give him a smile.

He got to his feet, reached into his coat and pulled out his wallet, giving Polly's father a ten-pound note. Lestrade winced at the expenditure. "Take her someplace nice for lunch," Watson demanded in a dangerous, quiet tone.

The man looked as if he was going to turn the money down, but Watson pressed it into his hand and leaned in close. "Damn your pride, man, she deserves a good memory."

The man saw the strength of will he was dealing with; possibly realizing that maybe it was not Watson his little girl had saved after all. He accepted it with no further issue.

Watson turned to Polly. "I'm sorry this happened, Polly. I hope you won't let it upset you long."

She shook her head, adamant, showing strength of resolve.

"There's a Lady," Watson remarked, his fondness clear.

He turned to Lestrade. "Collins can wait; we are going to _The Argentine, _now."

-

Lestrade and Watson made their way across town. Lestrade had insisted that Watson give him his Webley Bulldog, which he had taken to carrying on his person after a Holmes impostor had nearly killed him and Mrs. Hudson less than a month previous.

He had handed it over reluctantly.

They arrived at the Hotel just off the Strand. Furnished with green stripped fabric curtains in the windows and the exterior appointed in South American architecture with white picket porticos wrapping its upper levels, and green awnings adding to the plantation feel, Lestrade had taken Clea to dine here for one of the sundry anniversaries. It was classy, but not overly expensive; the middle class considered it serviceable, the lower class stared at it with naked longing.

Watson strolled in with Lestrade in tow.

Met by a concierge in the opulent lobby, to Lestrade's confusion, Watson took on a bored, precise accent with a slight burr. "Is my seat at the table still open, old bean?"

"Of course Mr. Watson, right this way," the elegantly dressed man replied.

They followed him through a large opening into a expansive parlour, there were men talking loudly, a cloud of cigar smoke hovered like a opportunistic vulture. The focus of the room was a large round green felt card table. Lestrade saw them get several strange looks. He was nearly at the collection of gentlemen when he saw something that made him stop moving, and breathing for nearly a minute.

There was a man re-raising on a bet with an abject ennui, and he did not resemble Doctor John Watson, he was John Watson, but a version not beaten down and burdened by life, and without any warmth in his eyes. **(1)**

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my tedious twin brother John," he said replacing a cigar in his jaw as he studied his cards. "I was wondering when you were going to get here. I've offended nearly the entire populace trying to get you to come find me."

"What do you want, James," Watson growled in a tone that surely must have hurt this throat.

His twin brother looked up, and Lestrade saw foreboding in his eyes.

James removed his cigar. "What I want to be, is alive tomorrow, if you don't help me, I will be dead before dawn."

* * *

**Story Notes: **According to KCS, we hear in SIGN that Watson had an older brother. Byzantine inheritance law in these Victorian days gave all the power to the older male siblings, but what if that sibling was a twin brother born just minutes before you...that would haunt you the rest of your life, especially if he turned out to be a total waste as a human being!

James is not Watson's evil twin, you have to have a conscience to be evil. That being said there is not much to like about James, but I find writing him is a hoot! Does that make me a bad person? I don' t know. I hope you like this installment and will continue to support it and me.

**MAKE SURE YOU CHECK OUT THE PROFILE PHOTO!** I used two versions of Ian Hart playing Watson, and I think it looks like two twin brothers, one who has lived a lot more life than the other, but is a lot kinder. **(1)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:** Writing James J. Watson has been a real blast. The man has no conscious, no shame or remorse, it can be refreshing to visit that point of view, that does not make me a sociopath. I just write about it LOL! The interplay between John and James Watson is so intricate and filled with their own version of short hand it might take several reads to catch the innuendo and snark. I know it did me and I wrote it!

Here are two men, but highly intelligent and genteel, but one was raised with a sense of entitlement and the other has devoted his life to helping others. If you feel Doctor Watson is being blunt and cold toward his brother, think of what it would be like to be raised with this jerk as your parents darling child. The bitter irony in this relationship is that they were born minutes apart, and yet that accident of birth has drastically affected the path their lives have taken. Here's to the abolition of eldest hereditary rights in America!

**Warning:** If you are not a fan of sudden chills, skip this bit.

These are Arthur's boys, except the specifics of James...but I don't claim him.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 3**

**Esau have I hated**

**Chapter Two**

After making such a dramatic pronouncement, James turned back to the game.

Lestrade could see that Watson was trying to make up his mind. "You've got my attention, so let us adjourn some place private and have a chat," he informed his brother with a threatening tone.

James waved him off, "One moment, dear brother, I have been feeding the pigeons all day, they are about to pay off."

The pile of moneys in the middle was very large; the bets went around with James laying down a full house to win the pot. He was about to rake it in when Doctor Watson reached down and grabbed his left arm, turning it wrist up to show the palmed Ace of Clubs. "I thought you gentlemen should know the calibre of man against whom you are risking your wealth," he informed in a gleeful tone.

James yanked his arm away, losing his composure for the first time since Lestrade had first laid eyes on the self-possessed man.

An infuriated gambler on the other side of the table leapt to his feet going for a gun, but he stopped when he saw with a flick James had a nasty over and under derringer in his right hand, which he thumb cocked. "Let's all remain calm, there's my lads." He remarked. The other gamblers, obviously contemplating acts of violence, noticeably settled down.

Lestrade saw a man in the surrounding crowd, who must have lost his place at a table along with his fortune; he was reaching into his coat. Lestrade gave him a low whistle, and showed him his badge; he tensed, and then pointedly pulled out his cigarette case in his other pocket, Lestrade gave him a nod.

"Now I will return all the winnings from this round only, because that is the only hand you have proof of foul play, which is in accordance to the law. No one needs to come down with an unfortunate case of lead poisoning today," James instructed.

He removed just the money he had put in, keeping the derringer apparent.

He shot his brother a glare and backed away from the table past him; Doctor Watson tipped his hat to the table and followed his twin out.

Lestrade glanced around long enough to make sure the game started back with no one turning to follow, and then trailed them out into the foyer.

"Was that entirely necessary?" James remarked as he turned to ascend the stairs.

John chuckled, exchanging a wink with Lestrade, who had just caught up, showing signs of genuine amusement. "It was not necessary, but fun, nonetheless."

Lestrade gave him a smile and a nod.

Obviously, the two brothers were engaged in a game that had played itself out many times before, Lestrade decided to back into the background and let the Doctor lead.

They entered a lavish room upholstered in green and tan with opulent dark woods and leather furnishings more at home in the study of a Lord. "I hate this bourgeois approximation of luxury," James explained as he crossed quickly to pull the green silk brocade curtains. He stood carefully to the side as he did so. "Alas, this is what I am reduced too, dear brother. You must not think less of me."

Doctor Watson pursed his lips sympathetically then remarked, "How the mighty have fallen from their lofty heights," he made a point of checking his dented pocket watch, "you have approximately ten minutes then the Inspector and I are returning to our duties. You have heard of duty, I presume?"

James turned with an equally pretend smile. "It sounds vaguely familiar. You did hear the part where I informed you of your siblings impending murder, or has your audible range departed with your looks. My, you have let yourself go, no wonder I had trouble impersonating you."

Lestrade restrained himself from calling out a question trusting the Doctor to follow up.

"Impersonate me?" Watson asked, incredulous, "I imagine you were revealed the first moment you had to say something polite."

James gave him a derisive snort. "Can we return to the pressing problem of the killer who will most likely usher me into my grave this very eve?"

Doctor Watson pulled out the silver cigarette case he was fond of carrying and offered a smoke to Lestrade who accepted it with a grateful nod. This dance of affectation and veiled insult was giving him a headache.

They both lit up. Watson took a drag casually sitting in one of the lavish leather chairs, as Lestrade took the one across, matching his partner's manner. Lestrade had learned to follow the Doctor's lead when it came to matters of diplomacy.

"Forgive me, James, but you have been dead before, for nearly six years this last time, why resurface now? Did the money you squandered from the family fortune finally run its course?" Watson remarked, nonchalant, as he leaned back, crossing his legs.

James turned from checking out the window once again, clearly irritated. "That was then, dear brother, this is now. We do not have the time to rehash the past, the fog is rolling in, and the assassin in question always strikes in the fog."

Doctor Watson studied his brother's face. "You know, I was wrong after all," he stated, "You do have at least one emotion, self-preservation. Here I was under the impression you were a total sociopath."

James flicked his comment away like an irksome fly. "I need protection, and not from Scotland Yard, they are compromised, I need you to take me to the Diogenes Club."

Lestrade forgot his desire to remain in the milieu or this affair. "What do you mean the Yard is compromised?" he demanded his voice thick with threat.

James seemed to see him for the first time, dismissed him instantly turning back to Doctor Watson who was leaning forward placing a calming hand on Lestrade's knee. "It is a foregone conclusion that I cannot walk into the Diogenes and ask for an audience with Mycroft Holmes myself, considering I was up to my knickers in a plot to end his life," James informed with a careless clipped tone.

"What do you mean the Yard is compro...er what did you say?" Lestrade blurted.

James turned to Doctor Watson with exasperation. "Does this functionary really need to be here, for all I know he is the leak in the ranks of the Scotland Yard constabulary."

Doctor Watson's ears went angry red. "You've got two minutes remaining, but insulting my dear friend and my colleagues at the Yard have not convinced me of your plight. Hark! My departure approaches. Come, Lestrade."

As they stood to go, James' placid countenance suddenly pinched in desperation. "I can give you the name of the man behind the plot to impersonate Sherlock Holmes and assassinate his brother Mycroft. That name is the key to leaders further up, as well you know. He was murdered on a ship in the Channel, buried on foreign soil, still under an assumed identity in an unmarked state supplied grave; you'll never who he was outside of me telling you."

Doctor Watson stopped Lestrade, they sat back down. "What is your price, James; you never do anything altruistic, there has to be a price attached."

"Just get me out of England, somewhere secure, and I will give it to you, not before," James called.

Watson and Lestrade exchanged a look. They both knew the value of the information James was purporting to have.

"Please, John, I need your help," James remarked, standing stiff, his hands behind his back.**(2)** The look of vulnerability on James' face convinced Lestrade of his sincerity.

"I know I have not been a brother to you, I am not asking you as a sibling, I know better than attempt that tact, but as a gentleman. I know you have always been the better man," James said in the manner of a confession.

Doctor Watson snubbed out his cigarette, and then clapped. "Bravo! You have gotten much better over the years, James, I was almost in tears."

Lestrade gaped at his companion's insensitivity. He had never known Watson to ignore a request for help.

James held his pose and dignity for another few moments as Doctor Watson settled back into polite silence, then he smiled unpleasantly. "Well you cannot blame a man for trying. I must say you have become quite cynical in my absence, John. Our parents would be disappointed."

Doctor Watson shrugged. "Our parents were always disappointed, in me at least; luckily they are in the grave, which has cut down on their disapproval significantly. Now if you are done attempting to sway me by referencing our common heritage, can we just skip to end?"

James assessed his options, and then said, "This assassin has been busy. All who were involved with this debacle are targets; this includes you, your inspector friend, and that lovely little ex-housekeeper who lives in 221a Baker Street. If you let me die, you throw away your one sure victim. He is coming for me, of that I have no doubt; by saving me you save yourself, and your friends. Is that sufficient reason?"

Lestrade caught the look of mirth in Doctor Watson's eye. He was beginning to understand.

"He's gone from referencing your inborn streak of chivalry, to your family, and now he's referencing danger to your friends, all are great motivating factors I have seen for you in the past. He is good, I will hand you!"

Lestrade turned back to see James' face was going red from frustration. _I owe him for that crack about functionary and for disparaging the Yard. _"What are you, when you're not attempting to swindle people at cards, a lawyer perhaps?"

Doctor Watson chuckled. James looked affronted.

He answered Lestrade in clipped precise tones, "Noting as jejune as a barrister, I'm afraid. You are looking at the Right and Honourable Judge Hamish J. Watson. You should think very carefully at how you address me. Inspector."

Lestrade felt a surge of fear, but Doctor Watson was clearly amused. "You've never been right, James, and you have certainly never been honourable, and you are technically still a dead man, which means that any authority you ever possessed, which was not ruined by the bottle, is now moot."

Doctor Watson turned to Lestrade. "Pay no attention to the impotent man, Lestrade, shall we adjourn?"

Suddenly there was a high-pitched scratching noise from the direction of the windowpane. James went positively pale. Lestrade and Watson leapt to their feet and crossed the room past the frozen, terrified man, Lestrade with weapon drawn.

At a nod, Watson pulled back the green curtains. There was nothing on the small veranda but the swirling fog. On the pane of glass, etched these words:

**Είστε επόμενο**

Lestrade could not make out what language that was, but Doctor Watson looked grim. There was a clink of glassware as James poured himself a glass of amber liquid. He drank half with shaky hands.

Watson led Lestrade back to their earlier seats.

"That terrace is two stories up, it's for decoration, there's no way to reach it from the exterior unless you climb the portcullis," Lestrade remarked in trepidation. Doctor Watson nodded, his countenance grave.

James finished his glass in one gulp. "Tell the plebeian what those words mean, John, I'd like to see his expression."

Doctor Watson met Lestrade's eyes. "It's Greek, Lestrade, it means "_you are next_."

"Whatever your brother is, or is not, he is not exaggerating at this moment," Lestrade concluded.

Watson nodded. He looked pale and as if he had aged ten years since he entered the room. "I've already decided to help him. I just hope I live to regret it." **(2)**

* * *

**Story Notes:** This story can be viewed as an Epilogue of sorts to **Impostor**, but I think it holds it's own very well.

**(2)** I have included a GREAT picture for this in my profile. I worked on it for days I hope you enjoy it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:** This chapter was a little harder coming out because I have a complicated plot I am setting up here, and it is difficult to know what you can reveal or not reveal. The principal characters did not behave themselves either! Those boys are having a blast making my life miserable! One Watson was bad enough, now I have two of the cheeky blighters in my brain! GET THEM OUUUUUUT!

James especially will not behave himself! I mean it's my fault for creating a complete Sociopathic character with the intelligence of a John Watson (now I know how Victor Frankenstein felt!) but he will not go where I want and do what I want. Grrrrrrrrr! I might just write his death and get it over with. Bwahahahahahahah!

As you can tell I am not very stable these days.

**WARNING:** James gets a little personal with his brother, so if you understand German beware...if you do not...then don't worry he's talking about fluffy bunnies.

I hope you enjoy the product of my annoyance, and once again these are Arthur's boys. (except James but you did not hear that from me!)

**Bart **

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 3**

**Esau have I hated**

**Chapter Three**

The wait for James to pack his belongings was not a long one.

Lestrade turned a wry eye to Watson as his brother showed a remarkable proclivity to arrange at speed. The man opened drawers and pulled out entire stacks of clothing placing them in his trunk in what was obviously predetermined order.

"I've never seen a man who can bundle like a woman before," he murmured. Watson snorted. "James is so used to getting out of a hotel fast; he has it down to a science, vicissitudes of the life of a shiftless card shark I suppose."

James paused to shoot his brother a disdainful glance as he pulled out his entire closet of suits and stacked them on top of everything else so evenly they would not wrinkle.

"If you are done defaming my routine to the inspector, I am ready to proceed," he remarked as he fastened his trunk closed.

"I'm not done defaming your lifestyle, luckily, I can do that enroute," Watson replied with a chuckle as he stood to go.

James shot him a look of utmost evil before he summoned a bellhop to take his bags down.

Lestrade, without a word exchanged scouted ahead, seeing no one suspicious in the hallways or lobby, he stepped out to the street and summoned a cab.

Doctor Watson stayed in vicinity to his brother as they both stepped out and boarded the cab. After the haughty concierge supervised the loading of James' luggage, he glanced up into the compartment to invite the man back; he did a double take when he saw the two brothers together.

"You might need to take the afternoon off and rest, good man," Lestrade informed him with a serious tone, "you look as if you are seeing double!"

They were nearly around the block when Watson nudged him with his elbow, "that was entirely unnecessary, that man looked ready to pass out."

"Not necessary," Lestrade remarked with a sly wink, "but fun nonetheless."

**-**

_In the shelter of an alleyway they passed, a pair of dark gray eyes watched them go by. They finally managing to run the prey to ground, the message caused the man to leave the sanctity of his burrow and out into the open. It was only a matter of time before the target gave an opportunity. Two black leather gloves tightened their grip on the shaft of a weapon used many times before, due to find use at least one more time this night. As the fog shifted, the figure disappeared _

-

They did not engage in much conversation as they proceeded across a mist-enshrouded London, the gas lamps lit early only to make the streets more eerie than illuminated.

"He is out there," James murmured, "I can feel him stalking me."

Lestrade had been alert, his eyes latching onto anyone in the vague crowd they passed that showed an interest.

Watson however was seemingly insouciant about the entire issue. "I must warn you, James, play it above the table with Mycroft Holmes. He is the only man I have ever met whose capacity for duplicity exceeds your own."

James smiled. "That almost seems like a challenge, dear brother."

Watson answered his smile with one of his own. "Take it as you will, I have fulfilled the extent of my conscious on the matter."

Lestrade did not know much about the inner workings of Watson's relationship with his brother, but he knew enough to know Watson had just guaranteed his twin and Mycroft would collide. Watson glanced at Lestrade his moustache cocked up on one side in that old lopsided grin that let Lestrade know he was up to something. Lestrade nodded to let him know he was on the page.

They disembarked at the Diogenes Club, Watson, clearly reluctant, sent his brother's belongings with the cab on to his practice at Kensington.

The two men on the door recognized Watson, and let him through, but followed them closely as they made the foyer. "We will need to search you gentlemen for weapons."

Watson nodded. "I understand you chaps being cautious, after the events of late."

One of the men nodded as he relieved Lestrade of his service revolver and of Watson's Bulldog. They searched James, but missed the sleeve Derringer.

"You may want to check that chap there rather closely, I know of at least one weapon up his sleeve you've already missed, and he has not remarked upon it." Watson confessed.

They seized James, and began to lead him off; he turned enough to glower at Watson, his brother waved at him with just his fingers.

Lestrade watched in shock as James was led into a door down the hallway, before following Watson up the steps.

The new personal assistant ushered them in to Mycroft's empty office. This subordinate was less pretentious and conceited than the previous; taking their coats and hats graciously. Lestrade considered him a definite improvement to the predecessor that Watson shot.

After he left to bring tea, Watson and Lestrade were left alone for the first time since they first encountered his brother.

"So...you have a twin." Lestrade remarked, trying to keep the bother out of his voice.

Watson raised an eyebrow at that. "I would have told you had I felt it were pertinent, Lestrade, I honestly thought he was dead this time."

"This time?" Lestrade stated, "He has done this before I take it, faked his death you mean?"

Watson sighed ran a hand across his tired face. Then he turned the full weight of his gaze to Lestrade. "Among other things just as odious, of course you knew he was in town, did you not, Mycroft?"

Lestrade startled. He did not hear the colossal bureaucrat enter behind them on the thick carpeting.

Watson turned to give the man an unfriendly look. "I thought that mention of my family's alcoholic proclivities was a bit pointed, that day we came here looking for clues concerning that impostor."

"I suspected," Mycroft remarked as he crossed the room and took a seat behind his desk, his chair squeaking in protest. "To be honest I anticipated having this particular conversation after his dead body turned up in the morgue. Is this cause for another threat, Doctor?"

A sly smile touched Watson's lips. "The threat was over your mistreatment of my loved ones as I recall. You have nothing to worry about in this affair."

Watson and Mycroft exchanged a long look. "Very well, it is nice to have clarification." He opened the humidor on his desk and turned it around toward the two gentlemen after selecting one for himself.

He puffed on it contentedly as they lit up. "Your brother is quite remarkable, Watson."

"How so?" Watson inquired blowing out his first puff.

"I know who hunts him, I know what hunts him," Mycroft replied studying his cigar. "Charon," he said softly.

Watson and Lestrade exchanged a look. In that moment, Mycroft did not seem bored, complacent or arrogant as he had always seemed. Those words were spoken with a quiet inner anguish that the big man was probably unaware tinted his voice.

"Who is Charon?" Lestrade inquired.

"Ferryman of the Styx in the Greco Roman version of hell is the mythology. The reality is even more frightening. Whomever this is, they move with the fog, strike with no notice or preamble, the body is normally found with a bullet wound penetrating the back and out through the chest piercing the heart, but no shot heard or bullet found. The victim always has a coin on their tongue, a Roman Drachma as I recall, it is one of the old Greek customs to pay the Ferryman," Mycroft remarked as he studied his cigar. "They leave messages written in Greek behind at some scenes, others they do not; the Drachma is the most consistent characteristic. No one targeted by this individual has ever lived to tell about it. One man, tracked all the way to Calcutta before he turned up dead, fully armed in their Hotel room with the door locked from the inside, coin on their tongue."

Mycroft replaced his cigar and turned to look out the window. "The victim in Calcutta was a good man, and a valuable agent."

Watson smirked. "Did you catch all of that, James?"

Mycroft raised a bemused eyebrow, "He would be wise to exercise more often, your brother, I could hear his laboured breathing all the way over here."

James came in the door looking unrepentant; he was dressed in a robe. "I did not want to interrupt such an interesting tale of woe." He started to reach for the humidor, but Mycroft shut it with a bang. He shrugged unconcerned. "Did you give Mr. Holmes my terms? Oh and as for my missing attire, thank you for the strip search, it was must invigorating."

Watson appeared unabashed. "I owed you one after the Cambridge cotillion affair."

James rolled his eyes. "Are you still holding a grudge after all this time, I mean really!"

"You were not left to Helga die Haus Frau, und her Barmherzigkeit," Watson remarked with a shudder.

James sneered. "She asked after you more than once, wondering where her little Wienerschnitzel had gone. I never asked if she was referring to endowment."

"You know damn well she was not," Watson growled.**(3)**

"If we can table the discussion of shared genitalia for the moment, can we discuss this proposal?" called Mycroft.

Lestrade was silently enjoying the rejoinder between the two brothers. He had rarely seen anyone get the best of John Watson in a battle of wills, to see him rankled with such ease was interesting to say the least. It distinctly reminded Lestrade of the banter the Doctor had shared with Sherlock Holmes in a way. He filed that bit of information away for later.

Mycroft listened, puffing a cloud into existence, as James gave him the details that he had offered to his brother and Lestrade earlier, including his conditions.

"As soon as I am safe on foreign soil, you will receive the name by telegraph," James finished.

The other three men exchanged a grave look.

"What is the difficulty, do I need to explain my proposal in a vocabulary using fewer syllables?" James snapped. "I may not live to see the dawn if I am not given protection, then your information is lost along with me."

Mycroft stubbed out the remains of his cigar. "The only way to see you safe to another shore is to kill Charon," he remarked. "This is a task that the Diogenes Club has been working on for years. The bâtard is a ghost, a vapour; he has killed people two steps away from their protection and disappeared."

James began to pale. "If you get me off of the island, and conceal me properly, this plan could work."

Lestrade shook his head at the man's stubbornness. "This whatever it is climbed a two story trellis without making a sound, scratched out his message and was gone the next instant, I don't think hiding you in a trunk on the next steamer out is going to do it."

James glared at them his expression adamant. "I know deception, and I say it can be done, a little sleight of hand and misdirection and I could be eating crepes in Versailles."

Lestrade shot up in his seat. "I have an idea."

Watson and Mycroft both gaped at him openly incredulous.

Lestrade glowered at them both. "I did make Chief Inspector on more than my looks."

Mycroft nodded. "That goes without saying, the idea Inspector, if you please."

Lestrade knew he had been insulted, but since he could not figure out how he went with his explanation. "Charon wants James J. Watson..." he began, indicating the now bored James who was peering out the blinds, "I say we give him James J. Watson." **(3)**

James startled. He turned back to the room. "Surely you are not going to listen to this lowly civil subordonné!"

Mycroft and Watson exchanged a cynical smile.

* * *

**Story Notes: **Yes it did surprise me that Lestrade was the one that came up with the idea, but don't worry kids, John Watson is going to be involved! (so will ::Cough! Cough!:: James)

**(3)** Here is the picture, I hope you enjoy it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes:** I had to use a non-linear method of story telling this time out kids. I know it will ask you to read carefully and it might take more than one time to get the gist, but this is the only way to get the affect I am after.

I know most of my intelligent readers will believe they know what is going to happen, but I hope that Uncle Barty has a few tricks up his sleeve yet.

This is not the last chapter, I still have somethings to wrap up but I think it ends on a satisfactory note. So please read and enjoy. I hope it's not too confusing.

**Bart **

All characters but James belong to Artie Doyle. Please forgive me world for bringing such a complete and utter bastard into existence. :)

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 3**

**Esau have I hated**

**Chapter Four**

_Dark gray eyes watched from the swirling fog as they escorted the target down the steps of the Diogenes Club. The eyes narrowed taking in everything at once. Inspector Lestrade had a hand on the target's arm. The hair was short, and the moustached trimmed, the clothing tailored, so it looked like the foppish twin brother taken to a safe location. The hand Lestrade kept on the arm, leaned on more heavily than a man taken into custody would do, maybe to disguise a limp? The leg had a slight drag of the heel; the left arm did not rise as high as a healthy shoulder should when the target reached for the hansom railing. The man spoke like the target, but was too alert and prescient to be James J. Watson; his serious eyes swept the shrouded evening far too competently. _

_With a swirl of mist, the assassin changed directions, crept up a side street and saw a smaller contingent departing from a back exit used for services. _

_The man led out by two Diogenes soldiers was wearing clothing Doctor John Watson wore earlier that night. He strolled lazily behind his shepherds with a cane he forgot to use twice, faking a limp a little too forced to be natural. He blithely smoked a cigarette giving one of his handlers a look of irritation, speaking in a low precise burr accented voice when the man indicated he was to climb aboard a carriage that had clearly seen better days. The twin rolled his eyes in annoyance, and complied shooting a nervous look into the clouded street facing the wrong direction. A lizard smile crept onto a pair of lips. Target identified._

The carriage crept along in a meandering path roughly in the direction of the Battersea Fun-Fair and its amusements, and the docks beyond. The driver expertly switched back twice.

They disembarked heading down the promenade through the enshrouded cobblestone pathways, they reached the bridge without mishap, the fog rolling off the Thames wrapping the causeway like a cloak. The weather kept most of London away from this area, no one thinks of riding the Ferris Wheel where there is no view to enjoy. The only other patrons they encountered was a lady dressed in gray tweed with a pinafore strolling along her purse clutched in a wool gloved hand, a young couple strolling with a carriage speaking obliviously loud of future plans staring into each other's eyes, and an elderly man bent with age creeping along ahead of them near the rail for support.

The miasma skulked over them, obscuring them from sight for a moment.

There was movement, grunts and two pops of a Derringer before the cries for help rang out.

-

Lestrade watched as Rollins, the talented young Scotland Yard photographer sat his camera tripod for an overhead view. Lestrade winced as the lightning of the phosphorus flash powder brought everything into sharp relief. He looked grim as Rollins packed his gear. The young man had earnest brown eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses, wore a gray linen driving-cap backwards over a shock of blond hair. "I'm sorry about your brother, Doctor Watson," he murmured to the man beside Lestrade. Watson nodded to the lad, absently staring at his twin lying on the ground his eyes closed and peaceful, blood pooling around his side where he was stabbed, Derringer still in hand. "At least he got the bastard that did this to him," Lestrade commented pointing to a few drops of blood leading to the railing and over. "We'll never know until we see a body," Watson stated.

Rollins nodded to himself. "I'll have the photo prints by tomorrow." He left the two men alone in their thoughts.

Lestrade waved two men in white over, they loaded the body onto a stretcher. "You want to ride with your brother?" Lestrade asked Watson. The other man nodded, they followed the body, walking past the cordoned off crowd, whom gathered even with the haze nearly obscuring anything there was to see.

The two Diogenes Club men, who were supposed to be protecting the man carted past them, looked positively morose in the dying light.

Lestrade and his companion got into the back of the ambulance with the body, and it departed for its destination in no particular hurry.

-

_**Two days later...**_

Doctor Watson watched in silence as the coffin was loaded into the baggage car, he signed the forms the clerk had on the clipboard, visually checking the body with the conductor, as was company policy.

Lestrade waited patiently for him on the platform his head nearly obscured by cigarette smoke.

Watson made his way to him and they strolled off without another word until they cleared the station.

"So you have people in Northumberland to see to the burial?" Lestrade inquired as they boarded the hansom.

"I have an old family friend in Hexham seeing to the entire affair. He assures me that they will plant James in the grave that already bears his marker," Watson remarked wincing as he settled. He rested his chin on his cane deep in thought, stroking the thin, trimmed moustache he was sporting these days. "At least now there will be a body in the family plot, I'd hate for the space to go to waste," he remarked in a wry tone.

Lestrade once again checked the man for signs of shock. He looked like he was fine, but Lestrade still worried. "Are you sure..."

"Yes." Watson interrupted his hazel eyes steely in the afternoon vapours. This discussion had been ongoing for the better part of two days, Watson was through arguing, Lestrade dropped the matter.

-

They arrived at the docks at Wapping. Lestrade disembarked, and paid the hansom driver before Watson could. His generosity, met with a glare, but Lestrade made sure to show he was unrepentant. If Watson could be stubborn, he would as well.

They made their way down the gangway to the berth of a characterless cargo ship.

"Where are they?" Watson asked, peering though the clearing vapour.

"Come to see me off have you?" said a man walking out of the fog. He had shaved his moustache completely, and nearly shaved his hair down to stubble, but there was enough distinguishing features left to show it was James Watson.

"No, James, we came to make sure you leave," John answered, wincing as he turned to frown at his brother.

--

**Two Days Earlier...**

Lestrade knew he had the floor. Doctor Watson and Mycroft were both staring at him in interest; James was as well but with open disdain. He felt intimidated for a moment when he thought about the intelligence behind those three gazes, but he did what he had always done in over his head, he ploughed forward.

"It's like a magic trick, really, you have the promise, what is expected, then you have the turn, which is when the expected is turned on its ear, then you have the prestige which is the moment when it all comes off, preferably with the death of this Charon character," Lestrade explained with trepidation. "I say we use James as bait. We make it look like James escaped the Diogenes Club, then follow him from a distance until Charon makes a move. John does not need to be involved."

Doctor Watson leaned back staring off in space, deep in speculation. "Charon will be expecting us to attempt to decoy him, what is the turn?"

Lestrade glanced up to see Mycroft's gray eyes were dissecting him. He wondered if the man was following his reasoning or just questioning his intelligence. He saw no condescension in the large man's gray eyes, but Mycroft never showed any emotion, it was difficult to determine any nonverbal expression.

"I propose that the Inspector has the correct tact, but he is not going far enough with his execution," Mycroft commented.

"Now, wait a minute, we are not listening to this bungling imbécile are we?" James blurted. He fished out a cigarette he had secreted somewhere, and flipped open a lighter from one of his robe pockets, Lestrade had a hunch one of the Diogenes would be looking for that later.

Mycroft smiled at James, it was not a pleasant expression but a bearing of teeth. "You, sir, are soft, Charon is expecting soft. I propose we give him a hard target."

Lestrade shot up in his seat. "I was not proposing this," he sputtered.

James actually looked relieved.

Doctor Watson was still staring off into space. "What makes you think that I will fare any better against this assassin than my dandy of a brother?" he inquired turning to Mycroft.

Mycroft poured himself a brandy from a decanter on his desk. "I have in the course of my position, encountered many dangerous men, Doctor, men to whom killing is second nature. I have staked my life upon my ability to identify such men on site. You, however, escaped my attention before you laid your pistol on my desk. That makes you one of the most perilous men I have ever had the misfortune of stumbling upon."

Lestrade noticed that the normally vocal James faded into the background. He was removing himself from this discussion, sensing that the onus was switching off him and onto his brother. Lestrade wished he had his revolver, at that moment he would have gladly shot the bastard.

"I do not enjoy killing, Mycroft," Watson informed, his tone adamant.

Mycroft sipped his brandy, then remarked, "We are all talented at things we would not wish to be. The fact you eschew lethality makes you no less dangerous. As a matter of fact the deadliest weapons in the animal kingdom belong to creatures that use them for defence only."

"He is not an animal, Mycroft," Lestrade blurted; "he is a decent man."

Mycroft's expression was quixotic. "A decent man, but not entirely safe, if he were, he would not have survived Maiwand."

"I am death, the mighty destroyer of the world..." Doctor Watson stated with a weary sigh. "I have devoted my existence to prolong life, taken an oath to do so, and here I am once again called upon to end one. A bitter pill my days have become. What do you propose, Mycroft?"

Mycroft and Watson locked eyes. Lestrade felt there was no one else in the room at that moment. These two men were operating on a plateau far above his, he cursed that he had ever brought the decoy idea to light.

"He will be expecting us to attempt to substitute you and James. If he believes he is stalking James, then he will be watching your companions for the threat, which may give you the chance to kill him first, however, if he knows it is you, then he will be watching for you to move, and will be able to counter," Mycroft explained. "So, not only do we make you and James look alike, but you, and your brother, need to learn to look like you are imitating yourself."

Watson smiled. "Clever," he acknowledged.

Lestrade was gaping. "I beg your pardon."

"It's all just Legerdemain, try to keep up, Inspector," James called.

Lestrade's knuckles went white gripping the arms of the chair, he nearly launched himself across the room at James, but Watson placed a hand on his shoulder to prevent it. "Charon is expecting us to attempt to switch places, Lestrade, so Mycroft is proposing we do just that, but act as if we are not, so he will come after me thinking I am James attempting to be me," he explained shooting his brother an annoyed look.

"Then why not say that?" Lestrade retorted, causing Watson to chuckle.

James stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill showing complete disdain for Mycroft's standards of cleanliness. "It will never work, John could never hope to imitate me, especially not me trying to be him," he commented airily.

Lestrade remembered how effortlessly Doctor Watson had slipped into his brother's accent when they reached the Argentine earlier. "Show him, John."

Doctor Watson stood, he strolled over to the humidor, his posture insouciant and impertinent, he pulled a cigar out, sniffed it with disdain. "Honduran? How positively déclassé," he drawled with a precise burr accented voice as he clipped the tip. He turned to his brother. "Of course seeing as I am a selfish, self centred, ungrateful parasite, I shall partake regardless, all the while letting you know how inferior it is just the same." He lit a match with a flourish held it to the cigar, and then shook the match out dropping it to the carpet, stubbing it with his toe causing Mycroft to wince.

"I stand corrected," James remarked.

-

The next half hour had been instructive as Mycroft summoned a tall graying Belgian gentleman that pranced in with such a feminine air that Lestrade immediately separated from the man in his discomfort. "Gentlemen, I wish to introduce you to the secret behind the Diogenes Club's success in undercover assignments, Enzo Savalier

Mycroft informed him of his task. He looked at the two brothers. "Please tell me you want the pretty one to look like this pale, night dweller here," He lisped. "Have you seen the sunlight, sir? You know that great glowing ball in the sky?" he inquired of Watson with a plucked eyebrow contemptuously cocked.

Watson shrugged. "This is London, no one has in years."

The Belgian smirked, "Point, to you."

He criticized Watson's barbering, his grooming, his complexion and pallor, and the state of his skin as he styled and primped and applied a collection of strange looking and smelling liquids.

"I think I have done all I can do, Renoir himself could not paint on such a canvas," Enzo complained stepping away.

Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a telling glance when they saw him.

James gave his brother a once over. "All that work and I am still better looking," he remarked to Enzo.

Enzo glanced at James then back at John, before commenting to James, "I am hoping your talents lie in realms that do not require observation, yes?"

As James scoffed, the newly trimmed and fit looking Watson gave the fussy Belgian a wink before the man closed his case and flounced out.

The next hour, spent working on James' portrayal of John Watson trying to look like him. The man turned out to be a talented actor, which was no surprise, but his physical movements took some polishing. Mycroft gave some pertinent suggestions; soon they determined that all was as good as it was going to be.

Watson and Mycroft had a private discussion before they left with their respective groups, planning to rendezvous at the bridge to Battersea Fun-Fair; the consensus was if Charon attacked it would somewhere with a lot of fog, the traverse over the Thames was nearly obscured, a prime opportunity to be sure.

Doctor Watson had practiced with James' Derringer rig, until he was satisfied of his rate of fire, but the accuracy was still problematic at best, causing Lestrade alarm.

"You will take care, Doctor, Clea will skin me and tan my hide if I let you come to harm," Lestrade muttered, his nerves showing, as the men shook hands before they parted.

Watson flashed him that lopsided grin. "Why Lestrade, if I were not better informed, I would think you actually feel sentimental towards my person."

Lestrade waved him off. "I do not wish to go back to St. Cloud being my only recourse, nothing more."

Watson's grin softened. "I will be as careful as it is possible to be, Lestrade, but I fear if I look to my self-preservation, I will more likely end up on a slab in the basement of Scotland Yard. Clea will have to be understanding."

Lestrade almost choked on the words, "I will be most persuasive when I explain it to her. À bientôt, Docteur."

Watson smiled at the French, knowing how Lestrade detested using it. "Adieu ami."

-

Watson watched through the spyglass as Doctor Watson made his way across the overpass affecting his brother's casual slink perfectly. Lestrade knew that in addition to the two agents at his side, there were two other Diogenes representatives in disguise nearby, that made him no less frightened for his friend.

There was a metallic click in close proximity that made him startle a moment before he realized it was James flipping his stolen lighter closed, after lighting one of Mycroft's Hondurans he had somehow secreted . "I really hope this chap strikes soon," he remarked in a bored tone, "this weather is not fit for beast." When Lestrade glared at him he added, "Of course you and your ilk probably find it most comfortable."

"Your brother is risking his life on your behalf, and you feel nothing?"

James let out a laugh, and then he got an incredulous look on his face, "Oh dear, you honestly believe that deep down I really care. I thought Inspectors were supposed to be perceptive."

"Your brother may have shared a womb with you but he is by far the better man!" Lestrade informed the insufferable arse in an angry growl, as he turned back to check the Doctor's progress.

"Of course he is," James agreed around the cigar, "I would have to be a fool not to know this. My dear brother is nearly a saint. Altruistic, honourable, courageous, all he needs is to pull off some dramatic miracle and he will be a shoo in, I have no doubt."

Lestrade heard the bitterness in the man's voice, and decided to remark upon it. "You resent him for being a good man? Is that why you insist on inflicting the fruits of your irresponsibility upon him?"

James blew out a stream of smoke adding to the haze. "A man has to have his hobbies, otherwise life would become indeterminably boring, would it not?"

Lestrade would have said something scathing and nasty at that point, but the fog suddenly thickened, His nose for trouble told him whatever was going to happen was occurring now. He immediately broke into a run in that direction. His escorts from the Diogenes kept pace, he did not bother to see if James followed, because he had the man handcuffed to one of the officers as soon as he was sure the trap was sufficiently baited.

He heard the pops of the Derringer and he increased his stride. He was getting up there in years but Lestrade had always been a thin man, which helped him to stay in reasonable shape, nonetheless the longer legged companions out stripped him.

He arrived at the bridge to find that plain-clothes officers from the Yard already cordoned it off, they saw him coming and they let him through. Whatever had occurred, whomever the Charon character was, he was not going to escape.

Lestrade's sense of dread increased with every step until he was gasping, with little black spots in the corner of his vision. He passed a prone body, obscured by the gathering mist not pausing to see who it was because the Doctor's two associates were bending over him; Lestrade literally shoved them to the side.

Doctor Watson was leaning against the bridge rail, he had blood on his side, and he was pale with pain. "Sorry Lestrade, the bastard got a shot in. He was fast, I'll give him that."

"Never mind that, are you well?" Lestrade implored.

Doctor Watson winced as he held the hand to his side. "It will require stitches and I think I'll have a new scar for the collection but it could have been much worse."

Lestrade glanced down at the other body, it turned out to be the old man Watson and his men had passed earlier. A cane was in his hand, but protruding from it was a nasty eight-inch spike tipped with Watson's blood.

"I heard the tenor of the cane change as he clicked it against the cobblestones, I turned just in time, shot him in the chest, got a lung, even with a bullet in him, he still went for the kill," Watson explained. **(4)**

Lestrade saw that beneath the thick beard the man was sporting, there was another bullet wound under the shelf of the chin, this one angled to go into his brain.

"Luckily the Derringer was a two shot," Watson stated with a pain-filled chuckle.

Lestrade turned back to the white faced Doctor. "What do we do from here? The fog will clear shortly. We need to have a strategy in place by then."

Doctor Watson's already furrowed brow became even more so as he considered their options.

"My brother needs to die. I have a wound in my side, how about we show it to be fatal, my brother still looks like me, and he can declare me dead. We will push the paper work through the normal channels."

Lestrade looked at the man, barely able to stand, his face pinched with pain. "Can you play dead in that much pain Doctor, you need immediate medical attention. Your brother is not worth this."

Doctor Watson shook his head, adamant. "We need that information, those behind this monster need to be destroyed. I am not doing this for my brother!"

Lestrade sighed. "Damn your stubborn streak! What do we do with the assassin?"

Watson nodded to the railing. "Send him over the side, retrieve him later, transport him to the Diogenes Club, as long as they think he succeeded and escaped, they will not follow up."

One of the Diogenes agents nodded. "We have someone who can salvage it, and transport it in secret."

Watson nodded to Lestrade. "Go...get my brother...call for the constables to make it official, I need to play dead."

"At least stop the bleeding, you stubborn arse," Lestrade pleaded.

Watson shook his head grimly. "It will look better for the picture if I appear to have a pool of blood under me, however the sooner we get this accomplished the better."

Lestrade spun on his heel, all the way down to give the instructions he dredged up all the vile invectives he could think of, aimed at the toughest bastard he had ever met.

Behind him, there was a small splash as they sent the killer's body over the side.

-

After the body was loaded, and the ambulance was on its way, Watson opened his eyes.

"Ah, my dear brother returns from the grave, sainthood is assured." James stated, without affection , yet another cigar lit, leaned back against the side of the carriage.

Lestrade never wanted to kill someone with his bare hands before.

"Can we at least do first aid, Doctor?" Lestrade inquired staring daggers at the pompous prat blowing smoke rings.

"On a dead body, what would be the point?" replied Watson wincing as the ambulance hit a particularly deep rut. "We have to maintain the illusion, Lestrade, the wound will keep until we get back to the club."

Lestrade rested a supportive hand on his friends shoulder trying to steady the man a bit. Feeling helpless as the carriage nonchalantly picked its way along the shrouded streets.

-

They were in the Club infirmary. Lestrade had to wince as he watched Doctor Watson hand stitch his own side shut. A grisly task he took upon himself because of the need for anonymity. Covered in sweat from his endeavour, his face drawn, he had a bloody towel over his shoulder.

"I think I wrenched my back, those carriages need better suspension," James declared stretching in the corner.

"I weep for your discomfort." Watson replied. **(4)**

Two large agents from Diogenes entered the room, carrying a canvas-covered body. They sat it on a bier off to the left. Mycroft entered after them. He walked over to Watson.

"How is your side, Doctor?"

Watson winced as he pulled a stitch tight. "He cut a furrow, but it's just tissue damage, I am going to be sore for some time, and infection is almost assured, guessing that he did not disinfect his killing implement after every murder."

Mycroft nodded, he had a cane in his hand. "I thought you would find this interesting."

He lifted the cane and pointed it away from them, and then he depressed a stud near the handle, the malevolent spike slid out soundlessly. "This is the most ingeniously vile piece of work I have ever seen." Mycroft stated. He pushed the cane against the floor point first holding in the little stud and the spike retracted instantly with the motion of the cane. "There was a bag found with the body, it had disguises and a rig to conceal  
this cane in a pinafore."

The two agents cut the canvas away from the body. Mycroft waved them over. Watson cut the thread with scissors and followed.

James even strolled over his curiosity getting the best of him.

"This gave me pause when I saw it," explained Mycroft. He reached down to the corpse and removed the beard and gray wig. They all let out an intake of breath.

The body was of a boy nearly sixteen years old.

"I have always believed that Charon was an inherited title; there have been references to a killer with this modus going back to 1842. This young man would be the fourth generation."

Lestrade felt ill. "I saw this lad in the alleyway as I hailed the cab at _The Argentine_. I looked right at him."

Watson nodded, eyes serious. "The Baker Street Irregulars are so effective because no one pays close attention to children and youths, they are like scenery until they say something or cause you to notice...deucedly clever."

Mycroft agreed. "This lad has the build of a trained gymnast, he could have climbed any obstacle, outrun nearly any pursuer, and I am betting he was a master of martial arts. Born into killing and well versed. He obviously was well versed at disguise and subterfuge as well. You would not expect an elderly man to be fast, a woman to be strong, or a youth to be a cold-hearted killer. He could have walked up upon any target, killed them in seconds and walked away in the line of sight of any constable."

Watson touched his newly stitched side. "If he had not been surprised by my training and reflexes, I would be dead now. I have never seen anyone move so fast and decisively. That one moment of hesitation, when I surprised him by turning and shooting him in the chest, was what saved me."

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "I believe there is an empty plot in Northumberland in need of a body. Enzo can do his magic on our mystery man here; I doubt he will stand up to intense scrutiny. So we will keep it to a minimum. Enzo will also do some work on your brother as well."

Mycroft turned to James. "I have some papers for you to sign, your ship to The Colony will be leaving its berth day after tomorrow, as agreed."

James smiled. "It is a pleasure to do business with a gentleman."

Mycroft shook his hand."I wish I could say the same."

--

_**Two days later...**_

James feigned distress at his brother's attitude. "Now is that any way to treat your long lost brother?"

Watson's fist shot out and caught James on the chin. Two members of the Diogenes Club who were attending him caught him as he fell. James looked stunned.

"The only brother I have ever known died three years ago. If he should choose to return from the grave, him I would welcome," Watson spat.

He leaned close to his bewildered brother. "Lest you think I am being petty. There was a little girl you insulted to get my attention two days ago, her name was Polly, that blow was for her."

He nodded to the two men; they led a dazed James off.

Lestrade was upset. "You've been preventing me from taking such an action for the last three days. That was hypocritical," he jibed.

Watson shrugged. "If it will soothe your anger, I believe I popped a stitch."

"I feel somewhat mollified," Lestrade remarked. "I do however feel cheated on your behalf that your brother is getting away with no punishment, yet again."

Watson gave Lestrade that lopsided grin. "Tell him Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the shadows. "The Colony, is not a resort, as you suppose," he remarked candidly, 'it is a penal colony run by the Diogenes Club, who own the island. It has no extradition or human rights restrictions."

Lestrade gaped at the two men, who were smiling like Cheshire cats.

"You two have some explaining to do."

* * *

**Story Notes:**

First the Promise is made:

Then here comes the Turn:

Soak up the Prestige!

Taaa Daaaa!

What! Did you think that I was going to let James live happily ever after? LOL! Sometimes I LOVE being the author! By the way did you notice when Rollins was talking to Lestrade and James in disquise I never called him Doctor? Of course you did, you guys are geniuses after all! Or you would be over reading Twilight stories...don't hurt me.

**(4)** Yet another manip for you to enjoy. Man! I spoil you lot!

**Bart**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes:** I cannot believe it! Yet another project is in the can!

I have to say that writing James Watson was such a challenge. My natural proclivity is to give even my villains some sense of depth, and yet James stubbornly refused to do even one decent thing! I mean I keep reading back to his words and I can not find the humanity. He was a pure sociopathic jerk.

In the same vein the more I write John Watson, the more layers of humanity I uncover. Throughout three projects I have yet to really get a sense of his totality. He is altruistic to a fault, and yet he could assign his brother to a life in limbo without any regrets. He saves lives and yet he is dangerous. He can talk to a patient or a corpse with equal amount of affection. He suffered thousands of cuts from his brother, and yet when he finally gives James the punch for which he was begging , he does to defend a little girls honor. I am going to write more of these, yes we must have more!

I think we fail sometimes to factor in Lestrade's tenacity and abilities as an investigator, me included, I hope I help restore some of the old boys honor in this chapter.

I also foreshadow the next two projects so stay tuned!

Once again, I'm playing with Art's boys! I don't own em.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 3**

**Esau have I hated**

**Chapter Five**

Lestrade was tired of being on the outside, of being the last to know, finding out the turn after it occurred. "Someone better explain what happened, or violence will ensue so help me!" he bellowed, "How can we get him to give us the name if he's in a penal colony!"

Seemingly unconcerned with Lestrade's outburst of temper, Watson and Mycroft exchanged a look, and then Watson indicated for him to go first.

"It concerns British Law, particularly law governing inheritance," Mycroft began.

"Ironic, really," Watson remarked, "the same laws that have haunted me my entire life, the very same edicts that James has used to maintain the upper hand."

Mycroft nodded in agreement. "The actions that placed James Watson on that ship began with a single question from Doctor Watson to me."

"Can a dead man maintain property, or does it all go to the living heir?" Watson interjected.

Mycroft actually smiled in a companionable manner, which stunned Lestrade. "As it happens, I have become quite the expert on law concerning men thought dead, and the resumption of their property rights as of late. There are four tasks that must be performed to sustain your standing as a citizen, once your return to living status has been established."

"Duties which my dear brother neglected, because of the ruse that had him declared dead," Watson finished.

Lestrade caught on. "So he lost all rights as a citizen?"

Watson nodded, "And as an heir."

Mycroft was about to explain further, but Watson laid a hand on the large man's arm. "Let Lestrade figure it out, we owe him that much."

Lestrade felt gratitude that Watson was treating him as an equal, but intimidated.

He worked through all the implications in his mind. "His property would revert to the living heir, that's Doctor Watson, which included his personal effects, and any property he maintained?"

Watson nodded while Mycroft studied his thick hands appearing bored by the proceedings.

"So James' trunk that we sent on to Kensington by the statutes of British Law belonged to you, John?" Lestrade finished timidly.

Watson nodded, "I recalled that my brother formerly kept a false bottom in his trunk for money and documents, and smuggling purposes. I passed that information onto Mycroft, along with my permission to search the trunk."

"There were documents fit to blackmail all those involved, which is why he knew the names of which he inferred, I'll wager. There were also false identities, foreign currencies and Passports for several different countries." Mycroft interposed, "revealing that James Watson intended to escape our custody as soon as he felt it prudent."

"After all you did to save him, John," Lestrade exclaimed, "he was going to make it all moot. What a bastard!"

"I believe that has been well established," Mycroft capitulated.

"So you've known the names he was using for his only leverage for the last two days, why not just take him into custody? Why let him believe he was getting away?" Lestrade inquired.

Mycroft turned to Watson, clearly indicating it was his question to answer.

Watson pulled a folded piece of paper out of his suit pocket and held it out to Lestrade. "If he had guessed, he would have found a way to disappear; he is quite talented at that. So, In the place of all that was in his secret compartment, which he is now finally reacquiring in a locked compartment on yon ship, I left a copy of this letter. I believe it explains all you need to know to answer your query."

Lestrade accepted the epistle. Watson nodded encouragement to go ahead and read. He opened it up upon it in Watson's neat script were these words:

_In all of the years remaining to you, in the endless days of hard labour you face, I want you to remember._

_J'ai été ton frère.  
Vous avez fait de moi votre ennemi._

_Cain rose up. _

_Abel was ready._

_John_

Lestrade folded the letter and handed it back to Watson. "That was very petty of you," he remarked.

Watson shrugged with a poorly disguised smile. "Yes...very."

"Gentlemen, I have other affairs that require my attention." Mycroft held a hand out to Watson. "I am hoping if we cannot be friends, Doctor, we can at least be allies. I have found being your enemy is not an appealing proposition."

Watson studied the hand for a moment before grasping it. "Alliances are peculiar affairs, Mycroft, you keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Suis-je comprendre?"

Mycroft agreed. "Oui je comprends."

Mycroft tipped his hat and departed in the sort of characterless carriage in frequent use by the Diogenes.

"Should we mention that the fact there is absolutely no markings on those carriages make them stick out more than if they were covered with feathers and gold leaf?" Lestrade remarked with a chuckle as they watched the carriage fade into the miasma.

"Shhhhhhh…They are being anonymous, Lestrade, try not to point them out," Watson chided.

He offered an arm to Lestrade, and they strolled toward the twinkling of gas lamps lit to offer beacons in the vapour. The grand lady, London, was putting on her jewelry, preparing for the coming night.

"The haze is finally lifting," Lestrade commented.

"The fog will return, these moments of clarity do not last," Watson replied.

Lestrade stopped him with a tug on his arm. "Is this dreariness going to persist all night, if so, I'd rather be having coffee with Tommy and Bobby?"

Watson laughed, and hailed a cab. "Dinner at Marcini's to celebrate, I insist, that is if Clea is not expecting you home."

Lestrade knew that his cheeks had a guilty flush. "I may have made mention to her, of a possible excursion for this evening."

-

Later, Lestrade could not help but feel somewhat self-conscious. Marcini's was an eatery for the disaffected gentlemen, not an illiterate Yarder. He had always secretly admired Doctor Watson's ability to move between the classes. Watson was showing the same comfort level in this environ as he had shown at The Rusty Anchor. Lestrade speculated that the other man's time in the service of the crown might have had a bearing.

Lestrade pulled out a cigarette, and Watson beat him to his lighter with an easy grin.

"You are in fine spirit, Doctor, I would ask a question, if I may be permitted," Lestrade inquired blowing out his first lung full.

Watson indicated for him to proceed, but he had a look of warning in his eyes.

Lestrade noted it and continued. "I realized at some point that you and James had a peculiar conversation of a caliber that I have only heard between you and Holmes. I was wondering if there were some similarities, between the two men."

"James was the most intelligent person I ever met before I was introduced to Holmes," Watson stated, his eyes distant. "In some ways they were comparable, I will grant you, but the way they were different was all that mattered."

"What difference?" Lestrade asked nonchalantly checking his menu to hide his eagerness.

Watson smiled with fondness. "Holmes endeavored to be a moral man, he did not understand the necessity, but he accepted the word of those around him that it was essential. It is that faith in others that allowed me to forgive him almost any slight."

Lestrade smirked. "Almost?"

"Nearly," Watson affirmed.

Lestrade changed the subject. "So, what on this menu is edible? I am finding almost indecipherable."

Watson's face went suspiciously vacant. "Well, I believe you should definitely try the Calamari."

Lestrade nodded. "That narrows my choices somewhat, now I know what not to choose. How is the wound in your side by the way?"

"My side is my concern," Watson informed in a warning tone.

"I need to know if it is well enough to attend a play," Lestrade stated.

Watson paused and stared at his companion his incredulity clear. "Did you, Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade of Scotland Yard, just ask me, Doctor John H. Watson late of Kensington, if I would like to attend a play?"

Lestrade sniffed as if affronted. "It was merely a question; I had no idea you were going to react in such an exaggerated manner."

"Which one did you have in mind?" Watson inquired, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

Lestrade smiled scooting closer leaning like a conspirator. "I believe you know my propensity for never letting things go. Clea laments it often enough. I wished to know the name of the Holmes impostor, so I revisited Nurse Burr with a bottle of aged Scotch, after my duty shift of course. Through her, I managed to acquire the information that there was a certain beautiful young lady who used to come by Carfax Sanatorium to visit her brother, until a certain Doctor Gustav Bedlow found a way to suspend her guardianship. I traced all of the civil court cases in which the good doctor was involved. I figured out that Bedlow could not have gone as far as he did, if there was someone advocating for the boy, so he must have somehow legally acquired custody. I noticed the same Judge involved in all of the proceedings. I know a clerk in his office who has an eye for the female figure. If she was as attractive as was implied, he would remember her, as it happens, he did. Her name is Carla Giordan, a French émigré of Waldensian heritage."

Watson gaped at the Inspector. "Even though the case was officially closed, you would not let it go, so you kept at it on your own time, and actually found the Holmes impostor's name?"

"Jeremiah Giordan, his sister never married. She is most eager to meet with us to talk of him," Lestrade finished with a florish, "I did not make Inspector by happenstance, dear Doctor."

Watson laughed and smacked Lestrade on the back. "You have the determination and persistence of a blood hound!"

Lestrade gave his companion a sly smile. "I am rather dogged in my pursuit."

Watson groaned at the pun. Then a realization reached his eyes. "Carla Giordan, she is the actress playing Yum-Yum in the Mikado. So that is why you agreed to go along the other evening."

"It was not as voluntary as I led you to believe," Lestrade admitted.

"She is eager to meet?" Watson remarked in a considering manner. "She is rather attractive, I am forced to admit.

Lestrade nodded. "I mentioned that you were the one that subdued Jeremiah, and you were the last to talk to him."

Watson eyed the other man with suspicion. "You are not attempting to do the work of Cupido are you, Inspector?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I might have made mention that the fairer sex does not find you extraordinarily hideous."

"Well now, thank you for putting it in those glowing terms…" Watson remarked. **(5)**

Lestrade was suddenly serious. "I know much of your heart resides in that graveyard two blocks from your practice, the good Lord only knows what I would do if I lost Clea. However, I would not be a proper friend to you if I did not at least point out that you are still among the living after all.

Watson studied the other man's face with an uncomfortable scrutiny. "I promise nothing."

Lestrade nodded his agreement. "I'll expect nothing."

The two men touched their glasses in a silent toast.

--

Across the restaurant, two piercing eyes so light brown as to appear yellow stared at the two men with the scrutiny of a trained hunter.

Colonel Moran's rare steak had barely been touched, but the man's bourbon and bitters glass sat empty, a young dark haired man with the air of a trained soldier joined him.

"It has been confirmed, Colonel, James Watson is no longer among the taxpayers," he remarked picking up a menu to order.

Moran grabbed it from his hands with a vicious pull. "Let us do the math, like Moriarty was fond of saying. One missing assassin, who has never failed to report in before, even when grievously wounded, one picture of the target in the police files showing the man he was after, fatally pierced through his right side. One train carrying one coffin headed North with a body in it that resembles the man aforementioned. One more dangerous twin brother seated over there celebrating, and yet the right handed man has offered a toast with his left hand indicating he has sustained some injury that disallows raising his right arm, say a cut on the ribs?"

The younger man began to get up from the table, but Moran stopped him with a gruff, "Remain seated."

"We need to terminate James Watson, you are aware of the knowledge he possessed," the soldier sputtered.

Moran rubbed his temples. "I am aware of many things, Pierson, for instance, the Diogenes now have the information to proceed with their dismantling of the Club, something that has already occurred worldwide, thanks to Mycroft's infernal brother. We are finished in England, so we must begin our relocation."

Pierson grumbled, "I do not like the thought of retreat, what of that Doctor Watson, and Sherlock Holmes? They should not be allowed to live."

Moran nodded. "Agreed, however, Holmes will be impossible to locate unless we control his movements, I previously left Watson alive for that purpose, but the infernal man has done me far more personal harm than Holmes did Moriarty. I feel it is time to put my plan into motion. I need a man who is a Diogenes member, who is naïve enough to not know he is surrounded by wolves, but who is sufficiently well placed that Watson will be called in to help with the investigation of his death. Once I am listed as a suspect, it should place him in enough jeopardy to recall Holmes."

Pierson smiled unpleasantly. "I know of such a man. He is the son of the Earl of Maynooth, and inherited his father's Diogenes seat. He is also a member of the Tankerville Club, and addicted to the card table."

"His name?"

" Ronald Adair."

--

_**Two Nights Later...On the East Side of London...**_

She was coughing again, a hacking noise that he knew was bring up more of her tubercular lungs. She wiped her mouth with embarrassment, gathered the things she had dropped and continued on her way home.

Even after the years the disease had taken from her, she was still the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

He watched her from the dark doorway where he secluded himself.

His lips tightened into a thin line of determination, _her suffering ends tonight._

He stepped out to follow her through the clearing streets.

They would find her in the morning.

* * *

Story Notes:

_J'ai été ton frère.  
Vous avez fait de moi votre ennemi. _

_**Translation: **_I was your brother. You made me your enemy.

I think that sums this whole story up!

The Empty House project is after this next one, so stay patient. I think the next project is going to be a pleasant interim. It is more about the Police Surgeon part of John. I will probably have the first chapter out within the month.

**(5)** Check out this picture of John Watson. He still looks like James but I think the eyes tell the difference.


End file.
